Torn Satin
by Nerikla
Summary: Does it hurt? Dutchy asks wearily. His voice is small, that of a lost child in a crowd. Blink turns in surprise, his face concave, pulled inward. “Always,” He whispers.


_Note: Please forgive my French, as it might not always be grammatically accurate. I have done my best. At the bottom of this story there are translations - please use as needed._

  


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His eyes are worn, like the thread-bare knees of the trousers he was wearing. There are lines ringing his mouth, like smeared, blood red lipstick. From those lips come kisses, small and hot, like the cobblestones in July when he skips from one to the next, barefoot, his shoes hanging from his hands. 

She has soft blonde hair, almost as light as his own but much, much longer. He hates how it is bound, and pulls at it to free the gold from its braided captivity. It springs down her back, so long that she could sit on it. He turns his head so that the light catches in his glasses, so that she cannot see the thin line of his white-pressed lips. She is vain, so very vain to take keep hair that is so long. It is beautiful, but in Manhattan, beauty is weakness. For a moment he is reminded of a fairy tale princess, of a maiden in a tower - but she is not fair Rapunzel, and he knows that this night will not have a happy ending.

She is like piano music, the crumpled pages resting on the empty stands of Irving Hall, where Medda sings and paints her face and wears indecently cut clothing, selling her body more than her voice and squandering her dreams amongst the drunken guffaws and ashes in the last row of the theater. 

His friends have named him Dutchy, yet he is anything but - the poor son of a fallen Frenchman, he is the last member of his family to survive. His steps are weary, hopeless only through the bitter ale he assaults his body with. The ale helps keep the cold away, he thinks. His mind is full of silver frost.

He is numb.

It could be winter. It is snowing, frozen piercing stabs at bare arms and upturned faces. The sky is dark and clouds ward off nightfall, leaving poorly illuminated windows as the only lights.

"Je couche, chaque mot que je parle est faux," Dutchy murmurs, his mouth fixed in her hair. She ceases her movement, stiff in his arms like a bloated corpse. "Je suis non plus long que vous pensez que je suis."

"Vous parlez de rien, Jean Paul," She whispers, her words bitter, like an empty canvas stained with black coffee.

"Ne pas m'appeler cela." He snaps, his words biting, trying to remind her, his teeth on her lips, fine-edged ivory, cutting.

"Vous ne pouvez pas qui changer vous êtes." She says gently, her earlobes bruised, her neck ravaged with wet purple, the color of eggplant. 

Dutchy's reply is foreign to her, that of distant mountains and torn satin, the gowns she once wore in a land far, far away. He no longer speaks her native language, instead his tongue uttering something so odd and ugly that she is startled into silence. "Ik heb reeds."

He needs ale, needs to wash his brain free of emotion. He needs money, first, and to get the money he needs sleep. His eyes look bruised, hooded, and his body is so tired that he can hardly work the hard buttons through the rips in his shirt. "Tot ziens, Yvette," He mutters darkly at the door, his pale hand on the doorknob, burnished bronze, the hardened fire of extinct dragons. He waits for her to say something, anything, pausing for just a second. One word will bring him back to her, a single word uttered by the lips that he once found so entrancing.

She does not reply.

He leaves.

Yvette remains sunken on the cheap bed, her flaxen hair flat beneath her back, her chest heaving. She is gone, lost, amongst crown jewels and reflected light and long, long strands of golden hair. She is in a tower, she is kept there by a wicked witch who will never set her free. There is no prince. There is only pain.

Dutchy cups a hand over his eyes to block out the bright sunlight. It is nearly morning, and the day is eager to begin. At the corner he is greeted by a boy wearing an eye-patch, and together they stroll down the street. 

It is August.

"I need a drink, Blink," The blonde boy mutters, his harsh accent gutteral and false. His voice sticks in his throat, hard butter in a china dish, being sawed at by a dull blade.

"Don't we all!" Blink replies with a snort, rolling his shoulders forward so that he walks slightly stooped over. He has bite marks on his neck, but neither mention them. The two are silent for the rest of their stroll, halting at a closed iron-wrought gate.

"Not open yet," Blink points out unnecessarily, sighing. His good eye strays to the sign above, his swollen-knuckled hands deep in the confines of his pockets. His fingers poke through, but by now he scarcely notices. He is used to the sensation. 

"Does it hurt?" Dutchy asks wearily. His voice is small, that of a lost child in a crowd.

Blink turns in surprise, his face concave, pulled inward. He tries to find the words to answer correctly but cannot. "Always," He whispers. He does not have to ask what Dutchy is talking about.

Dutchy spies a scarf of pink silk, fluttering in the breeze above an empty vendor's caravan. Surprisingly no one has touched it yet. The breeze kisses the cool, crumpled silk; a light touch, a painless touch.

FIN.

  


- - - 

  


Translations: 

(French)

  


"Je couche, chaque mot que je parle est faux" - I am lying, every word I speak is false.

"Je suis non plus long que vous pensez que je suis." - I am no longer who you think I am.

"Vous parlez de rien, Jean Paul" - You speak of nothing, Jean-Paul. 

"Ne pas m'appeler cela." - Don't call me that.

"Vous ne pouvez pas qui changer vous êtes." - You cannot change who you are.

(Dutch)

"Ik heb reeds." - I already have.

"Tot ziens, Yvette" - Good-bye, Yvette. 


End file.
